


the soft stars that shine at night

by guineapiggie



Series: written for the Jyn Appreciation Squad [8]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Inspired by Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-26 03:45:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14992034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guineapiggie/pseuds/guineapiggie
Summary: Draven glances at the liquid that splashes into the dirt in the corner of his eye, the movement drawing him out of his thoughts. He thinks it’s blood, at first; medbay is running out of bacta, he thinks; did I spill that blood, somehow, he wonders, gripping his mug more tightly –His eyes flicker up, trying to find where it came from, but nobody’s collapsing or even slowing down, all those tired souls keep shuffling towards their seats, and already a shoeprint has made it all disappear into the dust the soldiers’ shoes carry in from outside of the ruins.





	the soft stars that shine at night

 

She shuffles across the mess hall with her slightly-too-heavily-laden tray of tasteless rebellion food, weaving in and out of the crowd of other worn soldiers with the same blunt exhaustion and the same half-mad spark of hope in their eyes that she knows she would find in hers if she bothered with a mirror. A few drops of precious, rationed water spill over the edge of her cup, casting a handful of small dark dots onto the floor - not like blood, but cleaner. Quieter. She stares down at them, oddly mesmerised and shaken, somehow, by the sight, then tears her eyes away and walks on towards their usual spot in the corner.

 

Draven glances at the liquid that splashes into the dirt in the corner of his eye, the movement drawing him out of his thoughts. He thinks it’s blood, at first; medbay is running out of bacta, he thinks; did I spill that blood, somehow, he wonders, gripping his mug more tightly –

His eyes flicker up, trying to find where it came from, but nobody’s collapsing or even slowing down, all those tired souls keep shuffling towards their seats, and already a footprint has made it all disappear into the dust that the soldiers’ shoes carry in from outside of the ruins.

He sighs, takes a sip from his cup, shakes his head.

_Get a grip, Davits._

 

* * *

 

The X-Wing touches down on the snow next to them; purely, she thinks, for the purpose of showering both her and Bodhi in ice-cold air and blowing snow into every last crack their clothing has left open. She can feel it cold on the skin of her neck, and it’s stuck to every inch of Bodhi, clinging to the wool of his scarf and glittering in his dark hair, even on his eyelashes. It makes her smile.

She knows he’s freezing, and mildly annoyed, but underneath that there’s a bright sweet little smile tugging at his lips and he’s physically _sparkling_ in the sunlight and he’s _beautiful._

She considers telling him, and also considers grabbing a hand of snow and dropping it down the back of his jacket – she suspects after a few days on Hoth, that will have got very old, but it’s still hilarious for now.

The pilot climbs out of the X-Wing, blinking into the blinding light, glances over to them and smiles faintly.

That kid’s smiles used to look a lot more carefree, Jyn thinks bitterly, _before._ But war takes a toll, it seems, even on Luke Skywalker.

Bodhi shyly raises a hand in greeting and Skywalker’s smile doesn’t waver.

“Go on, you nerf herder, talk to him,” she says, nudging Bodhi with a grin, but he mumbles something about a plane that needs fixing, and pulls her away.

 

* * *

 

She finds a spot, after a little while. The trees are more sparse there, leave a little room to breathe, and there is a sea of grass stretching out into a meadow, gently rippling in the breeze. The blades reach over her knees as she wades out into the moonlight, gently brushing against her fingertips.

It is finally, finally quiet. A part of her knew – well, no. That’s a lie. A part of her _hoped_ that the end of the war would mean this, would mean quiet.

That’s what victory is to her, for now – blissful, blissful silence.

She’s not sure about _peace,_ really. She’s never known it, and she’s not sure she knows what it is. She has no way to define it, other than the absence of war. The absence of ear-splitting noise, absence of cold metal around her wrists, absence of dark stains on beautiful places, absence of red blood on clean white sand, swirling in clean turquoise water.

The absence of pain, and of fear. Not for her, she doesn’t think. Perhaps not for any one of them, all those that fought this war for so long – but for the ones who come after them.

“So this is what it feels like,” Cassian says softly, lacing his fingers with hers.

The moonlight catches in his dark, warm eyes – they look so much like she remembers them, back when they first met, too deep, and with too little life and too many ghosts in them; but there’s something else now, something that has crept in from the warm light cascading over them on the elevator, on Scarif, something hot and calm and soft. _Hope,_ maybe.

She smiles. “I guess it is,” she replies quietly, doesn’t want to destroy this beautiful silence that still feels so fragile, and rests her head against his shoulder. “I don’t know if I’ll get used to it,” she adds, in barely more than a whisper, and he pulls her a little tighter.

“I don’t know if that’s the point, Jyn,” he mutters into her hair, and she nods slowly.

“Maybe not.” She takes a deep breath, then another. "It could be nice though. Peace."

Cassian sighs. "Suppose we'll see."

 

Leia wraps Han’s old jacket tighter around her shoulders and stares out onto the moonlit meadow. She understands it all, the need for noise, for music, for celebration, but it was too much, and she’d had to pull away for a little while. She needs to soak in the silence, the unthreatening, peaceful darkness; the whispering of the wind in the grass and that peculiar sensation, that friendly, gentle tugging at the fringes of her mind, no stronger than the breeze on her face.

She can feel Luke – her _brother,_ of course, of _course_ – not far, and safe. She can taste the same relief and the same grief and the same remorse on his tongue as on hers.

And, just a little more distant, just a little more diffuse still, another echo of it. Happy and tired and sad and _alive,_ so alive, so angry, too… but relishing in the peaceful night, in the stars glittering between the branches of the trees, and something firm and warm hanging by a chord around her neck, nestled just over her sternum.

Leia smiles to herself, and stares out to where she can _almost_ see a few dark figures standing in the waving sea grass.

_Thank you._

 

* * *

 

 

> _Do not stand at my grave and weep  
>  I am not there. I do not sleep. _
> 
> _I am a thousand winds that blow._  
>  _I am the diamond glints on snow._  
>  _I am the sunlight on ripened grain._  
>  _I am the gentle autumn rain._
> 
> _When you awaken in the morning’s hush_  
>  _I am the swift uplifting rush_  
>  _Of quiet birds in circled flight._  
>  _I am the soft stars that shine at night._
> 
> _Do not stand at my grave and cry;  
>  I am not there. I did not die._
> 
>  - Mary Elizabeth Frye, 1932

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by [this incredible gifset](http://jamesttiberius.tumblr.com/post/174702509072/celebrate-rogue-one-jyn-week-day-four-t-e-a-r) and the poem that it uses quoted above.


End file.
